


Permutations

by dendrite_blues



Series: Reparations and Related Works [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bottom Loki (Marvel), Developing Dynamic, Dom Tony Stark, Dom/sub Play, Emotional Kink, Established Relationship, F/M, Fake Science, Family Feels, Female Loki (Marvel), Genderfluid Loki (Marvel), Intersex Jotunn (Marvel), Intersex Loki (Marvel), Intersex Pregnancy, Interspecies Relationship(s), Jotunn Biology (Marvel), Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Kid Fic, Kink Negotiation, Light BDSM, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mpreg, Other, POV Loki (Marvel), Pansexual Tony Stark, Parent Loki (Marvel), Parent Tony Stark, Rope Bondage, Shibari, Sub Loki (Marvel), Theory Crafting, Top Tony Stark, Unconventional Families, Warning: Loki (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2019-10-31 17:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17854043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dendrite_blues/pseuds/dendrite_blues
Summary: Sequel toReparations. Loki and Tony explore parenthood, Jotun biology, and ropes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick note on vocabulary: Jotun in this story are universally intersex. In the process of writing Reparations, I felt the need to invent some Jotun words for parents. Why would an alien society with no male or female have gendered names for family roles? So in this story "machem" equates to mother and translates to "carrier" while "aleha" equates to father and means "caregiver." These titles are unique to each child, since the same parent might have carried one child but sired another, similar to how Loki was 'mother' to Sleipnir but 'father' to the other three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Wolfloner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfloner/pseuds/Wolfloner) and [buying_the_space_farm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buying_the_space_farm/pseuds/buying_the_space_farm) for beta reading and encouragement. <3

This book on human pregnancy is about as relevant to Loki as a schematic would be to a plumber. Between it’s childish tone and nauseating word count she suspects her blood pressure is high enough to threaten her baby’s health more than any of the conditions covered in the text.

The mutant-only cruise was a good idea in theory, but in actual practice her sickness rather ruined the experience. During their eight day float along coastal Spain she slept more than she was awake. Between the bed, the theater box, and the poolside lounger she suspects she slept at least once on every deck.

In retrospect she ought to have kept on hibernating, since the next several days were marked by rough weather that sent her head first into the toilet. After six days of torment Tony dragged her and the children out for a shore excursion in Monaco, only to redirect their tour bus to the local customs office. A few hefty fines and signatures later she laid her head on a different lounger by a different pool and mooned over how very wonderful it was to have Tony back.

For his worth, Mister Stark did not waste any time after the Christmas debacle. His every other word seemed to concern the baby, or some matter related to it—her. She’s convinced herself it will be a girl, although the book on her lap insists that at eight weeks the babe is the size of a raspberry. It is only just now growing arms, let alone legs and the organs between them. Not that the human standard of eight weeks can be trusted... which brings her back around to the problem at hand.

As far as she is aware her family are the first Jotun to set foot on Earth since the old wars. The child will be one of a kind.

There exist no books, no experts or warning signs. She has naught to settle her nerves but her sundered memory of Sleipnir’s birth and Tony’s irrepressible optimism. And so she is reading the useless human book because she must do something, and if the child is half-human then it stands to reason that the book must also be half-true.

She reads through the better part of the morning and ignores how very obvious all of it is. _Of course_ she is tired, she is housing a parasite. _Of course_ her breasts are swelling, they're filling to feed the baby. And yes, obviously they will be tender because swollen flesh of any variety is tender. With each page her patience thins as more and more unknowns amass in the back of her mind.

Will the child be Jotun? Will they look it? Will the heat and higher gravity of Earth harm them? And how long will she carry? Nine months seems a dreadfully short time. She thinks it took longer with Sleipnir, a good deal longer, but converting time between two realms is a question of how much sanity one is willing to sacrifice to the exercise. And she does not have overmuch of that resource to begin with.

Beside her, Tony is tucking into a sandwich with Jori napping in his lap. It’s a relief to see him filling back out, although it hasn’t been long enough for significant improvement. He always wants someone touching, she’s noticed, and fortunately Jori is at an age where no amount of attention is enough.

Hela is teaching Fenrir how to swim, although Loki is certain he taught the boy when he was younger. Foolish child, forgetting something like that. They’d made an odyssey of it, had taken him to the great lake on Vanaheim and... and Loki hadn’t been allowed on Vanaheim after the second war. Bother, perhaps it was Hela after all.

The familiar skitters of guilt have Loki’s clawed hands itching to scratch but she balls them up in her skirts, rereading the line of text her eyes had skimmed but not absorbed. _At seven weeks your little one is developing kidneys and will start producing urine by week eight._ By the stars, is there anything humans won’t talk about?

Now when she sees a toilet she is going to think about her misshapen, legless raspberry child urinating inside of her. Her nose wrinkles as she turns the page firmly enough that it rips an inch down the spine. Good riddance.

Tony glances up at the sound of the paper tearing. The weather is temperate here, even in winter, and so the tips of his dark hair glow gold in the sunshine. After a moment of unreadable staring he sets his food aside. Lovely, he wants to talk. Loki throws the book in the pool simply to avoid the lose-lose ultimatum of lying to him or discussing prenatal excrement.

Tony tracks the book’s flight and inevitable plunge, and closes his mouth to rewrite whatever he intended to say.

“Not a fan?”

Fenrir picks up the soggy book between two fingers and shoots them a confused glower.

“No, I don’t think I am,” Loki shifts to lay on her side, although it’s not nearly as comfortable. As fair as the weather is, she wishes she had brought her blanket. She’d like nothing more than to wind her fingers through the holes and doze.

“Aleha?” Fen mumbles with an arched brow. Again Tony starts to speak, but Loki beats him to it.

“Toss it over the fence, dear, we don’t want pulp sticking to the deck.”

“Any chance there’s a Jotun edition of that?” Tony flops back on his reclined chair, the hood of his heavy coat bunching under his head and making his hair stick up in the back. Her heart does a stutter, hopeless thing that it is. She can see herself reflected in his oversized sunglasses. At some point she will stop being unsettled by her lovestruck reflection, by how she must look everytime she sees him. But not yet, perhaps not for a long while.

“The Jotun don’t keep written records,” Loki says.

“Of course they don’t,” Tony sighs. “Lucky for us, I hear there’s a genius billionaire looking for a nine to five.”

“Are you nominating yourself to be a Jotun historian?” Loki laughs, sharp.

“More like a geneticist–”

“Oh mercy, is this why you’ve been slamming your tablet closed when I walk in?”

“I might have made a proposal,” Tony’s lips spread in a _caught me_ grimace. He retrieves his tablet and projects the display in the air. “Look it has a cover page and everything.”

_The Jotun Genome Project by Anthony E. Stark and Loki Liesmith_

Loki scans the holographic abstract with narrowed eyes.

“Is this not exactly the kind of study we refused the security council?”

“Well we’re not the Men in Black. Nobody’s gonna use this to make weapons.”

“When has anyone successfully stopped a weapon being made?” Loki returns to laying on her back. Tony looks like he wants to follow her around but he can’t with Jori coiled in his lap.

“Fine, we won’t publish it. No report, no website, no media.” Tony strikes through the words on the holo and throws the file in the little garbage can in the corner of the screen. His pulse flickers in his neck like a light bulb about to go out. “But...”

The fingers of his free hand scratch at his chest and now Loki must bite her lip to keep from apologizing. How many times has he told her she is allowed to argue? Countless. Hundreds upon hundreds. Even so, her throat tightens and she feels a tension building in her shoulders. They’ve set a new record for maintaining harmony on this trip. She doesn’t want the quarreling to return.

Tony huffs, and starts over. “Do you know that genetically there’s only two percent difference between my DNA and a monkey’s? Flip a few nucleotides around, change out a few amino acids, and I’m a four foot tall chimp painting murals with my poo.”

“I did not know that, but I’ll be sure to mention it the next time you fart in your sleep.”

Tony rips off his sunglasses so she can see him roll his eyes.

“But don’t you wonder? How different we are? Physically, physiologically?”

One word should not hold such sway as 'different.' Simply hearing it stated as a fact makes her want to crawl to the bottom of the pool. This is a matter she puts great effort into forgetting, regularly.

“So long as we’re healthy I don’t care,” she hedges. He takes her hand, and the sudden dousing of energy, fear, and gripping, all-encompassing love feels like she has actually plunged into the water.

Tony meets her eye and she knows already she’s lost.

“I do,” he says, “I want to know how your body works. I want to know what your genes are like. And more than anything, I want to know for sure that the sprout’s healthy. Which means I need to know what healthy is, for a Jotun.” He threads their fingers and Loki’s resolve crumbles. As always.

“There are no texts, only midwives.”

“Then I guess we’ll have to go to Jotunheim,” He squeezes her hand.

She squeezes back.

-

It takes several days for Loki to give him a proper answer to go along with the unspoken one. Like a gentleman he waits, although not patiently and not silently. She counts her blessings that he has at least stopped trying to hide his plotting behind hastily opened news articles.

It happens, strange as it may seem, during bath time. Everyone but Hela is present, and over half of them are yelling for one reason or another. In other words, an ordinary evening.

Of all the unreasonable things to be upset about, it seems Jormungand is falling apart because the bathtub is ‘too white.’ She sincerely hopes he has mixed up his languages again, because if he is truly disturbed by that color then he shall find life in the new house rather unkind.

On the other side of the shower curtain, Tony is fielding an equally unreasonable rant from Fenrir while he applies itch cream to his horns, and since the situation cannot possibly get any more ridiculous she decides now is a good enough time to give her verdict.

“You aren’t a life scientist,” Loki says. More screaming, more complaining.

After a gruff ‘hold still’ Tony answers. “Give me twenty four hours and I can be.”

“You will hire professionals,” Loki growls, nearly cracking Jori’s head on the tile in her efforts to pull him back under the shower head and rinse out his hair.

“Hey, I can hire professionals,” Tony says in an exaggerated tone of spontaneous inspiration.

Someone knocks something plastic sounding off of the counter, and they are both abruptly diverted by the wet plop of Tony’s brand new phone into the toilet bowl.

It’s thirty minutes later while the children are occupied brushing their teeth that Tony resurrects the topic.

“Well we already have the human genome mapped,” Tony says, setting a water-dotted plate in the dishwasher.

Loki tosses the last of the takeout containers in the incinerator and closes the latch. She does not know what a genome is. It sounds rather large, but perhaps she’s over-associating it with the Aesir word for abyss. With a quick snapping of her fingers she burns the garbage to ash and enjoys the bite of stardust on her tongue, refreshing after a long day.

The water is far too hot when she knocks Tony’s hands aside to wash off the ‘germs’ that she has grudgingly accepted are real. They can’t harm her of course, but for Anthony’s health she does whatever is necessary. He flicks soapy water on her cheek.

“Took about a decade. So add one genius, four and a half demigods, and a couple billion dollars…”

“And you will have a very expensive piece of paper with pretty graphs on it,” Loki finishes.

Tony shares a very exasperated look with her, and turns off the faucet. He wipes his hands on a towel and shoves it in her face.

“Oh, look, you’ve got a little dirt on your everything. Let me help you with that."

Loki starts to feel rather masculine as he steals the towel and whips him over the head with it, although of course he can't change from Jotun with the babe in his belly. Just his luck, that he was blue that night and not merely female. Now he is stuck for as long as it takes to deliver, and far too tired to hold an illusion for long.

The improvised weapon strikes Tony’s crown with a wet slap. A turnabout brews in his smirk until the little blighters run out in their nightgowns and reassert their power over him. It is a dangerous thing to give such small, ignorant beings so much sway over one’s heart.

Loki drops the towel in the sink and pulls power from the Earth to fuel his retelling of the Man with the Iron Heart. When he grasps the content of the children’s favorite story Tony slinks away, and Loki cannot blame him. He’s a bit ashamed himself, that in his infinite lonesomeness he drafted a fantasy where his lover was a king and his enemies were goblins and the ghastly thing pried between his ribs was a warm light for all humanity.

The last sparks of his story time illusion dissipate into the bedroom rafters and Loki allows himself a moment of tranquility. There’s room enough for the younglings to have their own bedrooms in the new house, but he isn’t sure either of them are quite ready to be alone at night.

Fenrir’s hair shifts in time with his slow, even breathing, the fairy lights giving the room a dim glow. Scrape marks dent the headboard from his horns and Loki wonders if that is the proper way of things, if he was meant to dent a headboard on Jotunheim before Odin made his own plans. Given time to think, he senses this is his real reservation with Tony’s enterprise, with the whole business of researching. There are existential answers wise beings know not to seek.

The door slips open and Tony’s shadow tickles Loki’s toes. He leaves a light kiss on Fenrir’s forehead because he is turning three hundred next year and some day soon he will decide that he hates everything, including bedtime kisses. Once done, he follows Tony to the extra bedroom where he has slept since they were forcefully parted.

It was not part of the original plan, but within a few weeks it became clear that he'd never get a moment to himself with his bed in the common room. The resulting renovation was a slapdash affair. Four bland walls just large enough to hold a bed, a wardrobe, and his numerous case files. It had a connected bathroom purely so he could get himself off in peace, and even that was devoid of the luxuries he used to consider non-negotiable. No shower, no towel hangers or cabinets, just a small mirror and a basket for his soaps. Now that Tony is here he wishes he'd put more effort in. At the time he hadn't cared for anything but the trial, but now the lack of care embarrasses him.

Thankfully Tony doesn't comment on it, he is too busy pestering him to the brink of madness.

“And what about Sleipnir?”

“What about him?”

“Well he’s half...what? Horse?”

“Half-Jotun,” Loki mutters.

The shameful truth, which he would prefer not to reveal, is that he hasn’t a clue what Svadilfari was. Apart from phallically gifted and a terrible decision.

Nothing in the following argument bears repeating, particularly in retrospect, when Loki has the benefit of fully understanding Tony’s words. He regrets it instantly, and then finds himself simpering into the bathroom sink because he feels so unreasonably guilty. By the time Tony enters Loki is holding his still-packaged toothbrush and crying with joy at his return. Five minutes later he recalls the damned pregnancy book’s section on heightened hormones and stumbles over a surly apology.

Tony spits into the sink, pointing with his now foamy toothbrush.

“All I meant was, we should take a look at his DNA. He’s probably the closest comparison we’re gonna find.”

“The only commonality Sleip has with the sprig–” Loki starts, only to stop.

The surveillance spell he maintains over the children infuses him with an energy so strong that his teeth momentarily ache. He sets his hairbrush on the vanity with a clack of wood on ceramic and wipes the lingering redness from his eyes.

“Nightmare?” Tony guesses.

“Thirsty. Which means a trip to the bathroom at two in the morning,” Loki sighs.

“One, two, three, not it,” Tony jokes, leaning down to swish water and catching his gaze in the mirror. Loki pierces him with a dour glare and prepares to out-stubborn a cranky child.

-

The bed is a peculiar anachronism in the otherwise modernized home. It hasn’t changed since the construction of the cottage in the seventeen-somethings. Loki never had a head for time, let alone dates according to foreign realms, but it was some time after human men wore robes and before they wore pants.

Laying at his side is Tony, holding his tablet close to his chest and reading intently.

The book on gene inheritance is significantly less vexing than the one on pregnancy, but it does use much more advanced words. Loki has to stop every page or so to consult a dictionary, but once he grasps the meaning he finds it rather amusing. Pea plants, of all things, taught humans how they were created. How perfectly ludicrous.

It is the night of his dreams, despite all the bickering and blubbering. Tony’s breathing is a soft vibrato in his ear, and the cool touch of his arm along Loki’s side is a memory brought back into crisp realism. He is well on the way to passing out when Tony slips a hand over his and thumbs at his lines, following them ever so slowly up his wrist.

The sensation of weightlessness takes him by surprise. Not a literal lightness, but rather the emotional experience of diving into a pool. The sense of danger and novelty sending his blood pumping. Tony flips their hands over and the feeling fades, returning in intermittent spurts when he cradles Loki’s knuckles in his shorter fingers. The flames of the bedside lantern catch Tony’s lashes and flicker in the corners of his dark eyes.

“Yes?” Loki asks, blinking away the half-finished sentences rattling between his ears. Tony nods, as if that explains everything. Without a word he swings his feet over the edge of the bed.

An irrational fear overtakes Loki but he doesn’t let himself panic. Now that he’s aware of them, he slots his heightened emotions into place alongside the other symptoms which he must suppress as much as possible.

“What do you need?” he asks.

A slack smile gives Tony laugh lines beside his eyes.

“If I knew, you bet your ass I’d have you get it for me,” he winks. “Read your book, I’ll be right back.”

 _Back from what_ , Loki silently demands, but he learned regret in the kitchen of a destroyed atmo shuttle and so he does as he’s told. The book’s words don’t stick to his mind, even after he’s shaken himself and made the font larger. Long minutes stretch by while the whistling wind and the creaks of the old house form a numbing white noise. Finally, Tony returns with cold feet and some kind of string tangled in his right hand.

“What are you doing?”

Tony sits on top of the covers in the too-small space between Loki’s legs, shifting about until he widens his sprawl to accommodate. He takes his hand once more, and this time the freefall is less a leap into intriguing waters and more the sort of emotional precipice one feels just before speaking publicly.

Tony looks ready to abandon the whole enterprise, until he sets his brows. The feeling molds forcefully into a tiny spark of shuffling cue cards and clearing one’s throat before a podium, and then Tony tilts his head to a challenging angle. He smooths out his features into a look that would weaken Loki’s knees if he weren’t already sitting.

“You know your safeword, use it if you want to. Otherwise give me your hands,” he says in the voice he uses to speak to his robots. To his servants. Loki swallows around a tight throat and obeys.

Up close he sees that it isn’t string in Tony’s hand, but rather a pair of shoelaces. Two messy bundles pulled from the eyelets of his Aesir riding boots. He ties the ends together to make one continuous span and folds them in half, forming a U-shape around the middle. The makeshift rope is warm from Tony’s touch when it first brushes his skin, almost ticklish in the way it grazes the ridges of his lines and the crop of fine hair on his arm.

His partner winds the rope around twice, and Loki finds he cannot look away. It’s far from confident, the way he handles the improvised restraint, but there’s grace to it. A promise of skill yet to be won, temporarily hidden within mere potential.

“What brought this on?” he murmurs, alarmed at how such a simple gesture can have his entire arm vibrating with seiðr. A flush prickles up his neck, a mirror equal to Tony’s, which makes them a matched set. His partner shapes another loop from the slack and squints, turning the strings over and back and peering at his abandoned tablet.

Glancing to the screen, Loki finds a line of photographs with helpful captions underneath. Although there are body parts shown and foreign hands doing odd things to them, it isn’t pornographic. It is hardly even suggestive. Helpful arrows are superimposed over the regimented loops of deep crimson rope, showing which directions to pull and wrap. A guide. Tony attempts to feed the loop under the coils around Loki’s wrist and loses his grip. The whole thing devolves into a tangle.

“Can you not watch? You’re messing me up.” Tony huffs out a thick laugh, rubbing at his shoulder in poorly disguised embarrassment. “This is harder than it looks.”

“Well you _are_ using shoestring.”

“Read your book.” Tony huffs. He shakes his head and balances Loki’s tablet on his lap, tipping his chin down in a clear command. With a gentle touch to his wrist Tony repeats the maneuver, his fingers slipping under the coils again and feeding it through. One last cinch and the cuff tightens, a sequence of orderly lines with a loop near Loki’s thumb and a loose end trailing along the comforter.

Tony smiles. Real, spontaneous. Flush with the feeling of scritching pencils and graphite dust and _another perfect score_. It may be the most purely good feeling Tony has ever shared with him, the happy swell of _learning_ and _math_ and _an equation solved exactly right_. Before Loki has properly formed his own opinion, he knows he must give Tony that feeling again. Over and over if he can.

He unwraps his wrist, thumbing briefly at the chafed skin and then settling into repetitive practice. Loki tries to read. Not very successfully, but he tries.

He learns that genes come in sequences, like links in a chain. That all forms of life are built from a chemical code contained, identically, in every cell of their being. That some are dominant and others recessive, and that both must coexist within a system of replication in order for lifeforms to evolve and adapt. That it is part of nature for some traits to flourish in particular circumstances while others remain dormant and unexpressed.

He feels foolish, understanding so late what they’ve been discussing all night. Foolish, and somewhat wrong-footed. His origins are no great mystery after all. In a manner of speaking the answers have been lurking within his cells every moment that he has been alive, waiting for an over-inquisitive human to come pick the lock.

Chewing his cheek, he says softly, “Sleipnir will not be of any help until you have mapped my genome.”

Tony turns the page to his own book, nodding along. The pictures have two hands this time.

“That’s true,” Tony agrees, his eyes never pausing in his reading. “But if we want to crack the code before the due date, we’re going to need to map you both at the same time.”

“We don’t even know the due date."

For a splintered moment their eyes meet and Loki sees in the short alignment of irises all the fear Tony keeps to himself. Like a coward he returns his gaze to his own book, his heart hammering like he’s been shocked.

The worn drag of the laces slithers over and under and around his wrists until there is hardly enough left to knot. Tony’s cool touch brushes the underside of his arm, just long enough to fill his lines with beating, reinforced resolve, and then it is gone. His lover crosses one end over the other and pulls.

With a single tug everything contracts—the neat lines of shoelace, the captured beams of Loki’s wrists, and the seething jumble of worry sluicing into his lungs. Tony binds it all with one self-possessed motion and when he cups Loki’s hands again, all he feels is a glorious nothingness quickly filled with eraser shavings and success.

“I think I’m into this.” Tony says, smiling at whatever look he finds on Loki’s face. He leans in and Loki’s bound hands become trapped between their chests.

Kissing him is very much like clinging to a buoy in a busy harbor, an anchor that becomes more precious the rougher the waters surge. He feels his lover’s heart beat under the spread of his fingers, and madly imagines his own heart thumping in the same time.

His back presses into the padded headboard as Tony slots their lips into a soft, plying embrace that Loki welcomes with eagerness. The clench of the binding is tight, but his fingers are free and so he clutches at the fabric of Mister Stark's shirt even after his body has slipped away. His sigh becomes a lukewarm gust on Loki’s ear.

“Are you with me now?” Tony asks, his arms slipping between Loki’s back and the headboard, holding just tight enough to make the rope bite in a wonderful, distracting way.

The fear drains slowly, and Loki’s head comes to rest on Mister Stark’s shoulder. His fingers finally loosen from the wrinkles of the nightshirt, worming into the gaps between the buttons and pressing into the tough, scar-plowed skin beneath. He nods.

The kiss to his neck feels like a blooming bullet hole, pierced right through and bleeding wide petals of his insides out. Exposed for this man's eyes only.

“We’re going to go to Jotunheim." Tony murmurs, "We’re going to figure this out and everything is going to be okay.”

It's another bullet. Poised in the chamber and ready to shred through the doubts Loki cannot banish on his own. Mister Stark’s determination beats through Loki's lines and he can feel the prickle of seiðr pulsing from that chest and into his fingers. He wonders if Mister Stark knows the power he holds. If he knows that his force of will is a power all it's own, which the very fabric of the universe bends to accommodate.

Only a fool defies the heart wish of Tony Stark, and so Loki whispers back in a voice like rusted metal.

“Yes, Mister Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently took part in a discussion on the [Frostiron Discord Server](https://discord.gg/PrWdcUZ) (which is very welcoming and open to all, please feel free to join us if you aren't already on there!) about how fanfiction is sex education for many young people these days. I'm not ashamed to admit that this was certainly the case with me, and that I received much of that "education" well before I was of age. I don't think this is necessarily a bad thing, but it does make want to provide educational resources on the off chance my stories are your first exposure to these topics. For that reason I'm going to start including in-depth notes after my chapters with basic information and links to topics mentioned in that chapter. You are welcome to skip them, I won't blame you. I'm doing it for my own peace of mind.
> 
>  **Links for this Chapter:**  
>  Loki is reading [What to Expect When You're Expecting](https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_1_12?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=what+to+expect+when+you%27re+expecting&sprefix=what+to+expe%2Caps%2C170&crid=1K4NT7EA5Q2D6). It's the most common book on American pregnancy, and it works as a go-to. Many expectant parents find the tone of the book immature and too informal, and they prefer [The Mayo Clinic Guide to a Healthy Pregnancy](https://www.amazon.com/Mayo-Clinic-Guide-Healthy-Pregnancy/dp/1893005607/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1550602197&sr=8-1&keywords=mayo+clinic+guide+to+a+healthy+pregnancy). [Women experience a variety of symptoms](https://www.whattoexpect.com/pregnancy/pregnancy-symptoms/), [which vary week by week](https://www.whattoexpect.com/pregnancy/week-by-week/). Although most babies are now born in hospitals, [many parents choose to give birth at home and/or with the assistance of midwifes](https://www.thebump.com/a/alternative-birth-methods).
> 
> Genetics and gene sequencing are real sciences which have profoundly changed how we think about our world. The line about pea plants is a reference to [Gregor Mendel's early experiments in gene inheritance](https://www2.palomar.edu/anthro/mendel/mendel_1.htm). [The Human Genome Project](https://www.genome.gov/10001772/all-about-the--human-genome-project-hgp/) was completed in 2003, but [decoding the sequence is an ongoing global project](https://youtu.be/s6rJLXq1Re0?t=423). [Click here for a five minute overview of how they sequenced our genes.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MvuYATh7Y74)
> 
> In this story Loki is not only intersex, but gender fluid. [Gender](https://www.genderspectrum.org/quick-links/understanding-gender/) is a complex concept, combining aspects of a person's body, identity, and expression. Gender issues happen when these aspects don't match. Since Loki cannot shapeshift without harming the baby, they experience [gender dysphoria](https://www.psychiatry.org/patients-families/gender-dysphoria/what-is-gender-dysphoria) which [is not a mental illness](https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/2018/06/20/transgender-not-mental-illness-world-health-organization/717758002/). If you struggle with gender there are a number [resources and organizations that can help](https://www.genderspectrum.org/resources/). Sadly, we humans can't change our shape as easily as Loki can, but there are ways you can feel better in your own skin.  
> (Links below discuss sexual practices, but contain no nudity or pornographic video.)  
> [Rope bondage](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8cd2UmMiGQM) is a sensual practice [going back to ancient times](http://www.jaderope.com/rope-history-tradition/), and is considered a [somewhat risky kink activity](https://www.theduchy.com/safety/). One needs to [learn the basics](https://www.theduchy.com/core-knowledge/) before trying a scene, and even then it is recommended that new riggers attend workshops and learn from experienced practitioners. Tony is unprepared and improvising. Don't be like Tony. [Midori](https://twitter.com/planetmidori?lang=en) is a respected rope enthusiast [ who wrote a great resource book for beginners](https://www.amazon.com/Seductive-Art-Japanese-Bondage/dp/1890159387/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1478629027&sr=1-1&keywords=midori). Unlike some toys, [rope is not overly expensive](https://www.ropeconnections.com/kind-bondage-rope-best-bondage/).
> 
> Kudos are welcome, comments are fic fuel. Even if it's just an emote or a keyboard smash, it all helps. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The family's first day back at home does not go as planned.

The great forge of Nidavellir puts off the kind of heat Loki cannot stand for very long, it's boilers bursting with molten stone and it's dwarven proprietor Ivaldi smacking away at an anvil like it absconded with his wife.

Loki stands nearby sweating bullets. For some reason he has a dildo in his hand.

"Now I hain't fallin' for none o' yer tricks, mischief maker," Ivaldi grunts.

"No tricks," Loki says, "No, sir, I tell you true! There is no lawn ornament on Midgard more fashionable than this."

The hammer falls in a fast rap of three hits, like a fist on wood. Loki's entire right side feels like it might burn off, it's so _hot_. Eyes aglow from the hearth, the dwarf inspects the dildo.

"Well it is a fine shape..."

"The finest," Loki agrees. "And supremely crafted! I will give it to you for no less than one hundred million dollars. A bargain, I assure you."

"One hundred million.... Why that seems a right steal, it does."

"A theft," Loki nods fervently. "An injustice even, but for you I will part with it. My husband is coming you see, my _very wealthy_ husband, and I want to make a good impression. I want-"

The ground shakes, and something stirs in Loki's gut. Something ominous.

"My, you're growin'," the dwarf remarks.

Indeed he is, and quickly.

With alarm he backs himself into a craggy wall and watches in horror as the lava bubbles up higher in the trenches and his stomach grows to cartoonish proportions. Swelling bigger and bigger until he can scarcely see over it, and all around him the bellows wail like crying infants.

"What a blessin'!" Ivaldi praises. "Like me gran' used to say, a babe is a blessin' on any house."

The growing turns painful, the heat absolutely stifling. All at once he wants out of his body, wants to call for help, but the dwarf is back at the forge pounding, pounding away and chanting— _a blessin', what a blessin', a blessin' on any house._

Inside he feels the parasite stirring, stretching its limbs and already crying. Already accusing Loki of not loving it enough.

An indescribable pain sunders his stomach and he watches helplessly as the child claws through his skin, rending him apart. He screams, writhing in pain as the cruel beast emerges, red-eyed and grinning razor sharp fangs.

More creatures grow inside after the demon is expelled, trampling over one another to escape his wicked body. Primordial terrors fight for their freedom, gushing from his insides like a swarm of killer bees.

"Daddy?" they murmur as one. "Daddy?"

The ground quakes and cracks. He cowers, covering his ears and trying to block out the monstrous wails of his spawn and the ever-present clank of Ivaldi's hammer.

His open wound is birthing sludge demons now, horrible blobs of goo that wrap their misshapen hands around his wrists and bind them, and when he tries to free himself he is startled awake by a real hand on his wrist.

"Daddy," Jor whispers, shaking him, "Daddy, I need to potty."

Loki sits up, disoriented. His hands fly to his flat stomach and he discovers his eyes are wet with tears. He feels like he cannot breathe.

Tony snores behind him, and the sound jars him fully into reality. His bedroom walls are as low and claustrophobic as ever, the sheets a mess around his waist. His youngest squirms uncomfortably beside a stack of case file boxes.

"You know how to use the toilet," he rasps, rubbing sweat from his face.

"Tony said I should always tell an adult first."

Loki groans and stumbles to his feet. It does not matter to Jormungand that Tony said that twenty-five years ago. His youngest is a creature of constants. Once a rule is made he follows it dogmatically to the bitter end, and thus Loki has been woken just like this for a quarter of a century. Not to help his child relieve himself but to _supervise_ his child relieving himself.

Wishing to spare Tony the midnight torment on his first night home, he leads the boy out into the corridor. Wordlessly, he opens the door to the children's shared bathroom and turns on the light.

"Go on, I shall be right here," he says.

"Thanks, Daddy," Jor yawns, and shuts the door behind him.

Sliding down the wall, he sits with his knees bent and tries to banish the disquieting after-images of the nightmare, the mass of ungodly creatures with their burning red eyes.

Not a moment too soon, the toilet flushes and light bathes the hallway.

"I finished."

"Did you wash your hands?"

Jormungand hides his hands behind his back and Loki sighs. Wearily he turns on the tap and pumps a liberal amount of soap on both of their palms.

"You mustn't forget, especially now."

"Cause Tony will get sick."

"Yes. We don't want Tony to get sick."

Jormungand appears contrite, perhaps even ashamed, but Loki doesn't have the energy to console. He barely has the energy to stand. Wiping the moisture away with a towel half-heartedly, he helps his son hop off of the stool in front of the sink and back along the hall to his room.

There is always a sense of loss when he enters the boys' room. It reminds him of how much of their childhoods he’s missed. It feels ethereal to be there now, like a fever dream that will soon vanish. The soft fabrics in softer colors, the plethora of toys littering every surface, and the simple Midgardian design. He does not deserve a second chance, and yet here it is.

Fenrir has wound himself into his blankets like a moth in metamorphosis, and yet somehow his toes are still stuck out of the other end. By comparison Jor's bed is immaculate, the edges still tucked in with only one corner thrown back. He settles the boy back into his nest and sits at the end because he knows he will not be allowed to leave until Jor is fully asleep.

"Daddy can we read the caterpillar book?"

Loki is not sure he can read at all in his current state.

"You've already had a story tonight, it's time to sleep."

"Do caterpillars read stories?" Jor rolls to his side.

"No, they do not have a language," Loki mumbles. "Go to sleep."

The boy rolls on his other side, and Loki knows he will be here a long while this time.

"I'm not sleepy," Jor yawns.

"Yes you are, you're already halfway there." Loki leans his head back and rests his eyes. His body feels like dead weight.

Silence reigns for the space of two minutes, the winter wind howling on the other side of the old walls. Flashes of the dream return to him, and his fingers weave themselves into a tight grip of his belly. It won't be a monster. _She_. She will be beautiful and perfect. She will have Tony's bottomless eyes and his expressive mouth and his lovely brown hair. She will have as little of Loki in her as is genetically possible, and she will be loved by everyone she meets.

These are the things he tells himself, at every given opportunity, because the alternative is unthinkable.

He begins to drift, his consciousness melting into the floating smear of half-sleep, when Jormungand crawls under his arm and tucks his small hands under his shirt.

"What is it?" Loki mumbles.

The boy chews his lip, eyes down.

"When is Tony going back to the bad place?"

He purses his lips, stale guilt tainting his tongue. Tony's pride is unbreakable and he knows he could not have stopped him doing what he considered morally right, but his act of penance was not without collateral. 

On one occasion he had won him a temporary release to attend Ms. Potts' funeral, and when the furlough ended Jormungand acted as though Tony had died along with her. He became unnervingly quiet, always staring out of windows. Loki took him to be examined and was informed by four different psychologists that his child was either fine (Dr. Allen), depressed (Dr. Morales), catastrophically stunted by early childhood trauma (Dr. Fuck Face), or showing signs of autism (Dr. Cho). 

Annoyed by the numerous humans who seemed so eager to blame his child's eccentricities on his poor parenting, Loki decided the only problem plaguing Jormungand's psyche was a broken heart and put all of the doctors on the Do Not Call list.

Pulling his youngest onto his lap and wrapping his arms around him, he swallows down the residual guilt and anger and lays his hand on the boy's Jotun-marked head. The unfiltered emotion of a young soul reaches for him eagerly, and he answers it with what little serenity he can muster amid all the frustration and fear.

"Tony is not going away this time. He is staying here with us."

"For how long?"

Even now, Loki cannot bring himself to promise forever. He takes a steadying breath.

"For as long as he wishes to. And he does not wish to leave you, ever."

Tony may indeed leave again, but it would not be of his own volition. It would be in a wooden box. Jor leans into his touch, his eyes drifting closed as relief flows through their lines.

"I missed Tony," he whispers.

"I know, love. I missed him too. Now rest or you'll be tired in the morning."

Loki lays down on the too-small bed, and once again maneuvers his son under the covers. Someone should have warned him about this. The elders on Asgard used to speak only of children's joy, never of their sorrow or how deeply it wounds a parent to witness it.

"I love you, daddy," Jor yawns.

"Go to sleep, kærr."

"You're supposed to say 'I love you too.'"

"I love you too," Loki murmurs, his own eyes growing heavy from the dark and the quiet. "Now go to sleep."

With the little one under his arm he can't leave. His body is still hot but this close to the wall it is not so intolerable, and since his days serving in the military he has always been calmed by the sounds of others sleeping. Although he tells himself it is only for a moment, he allows his eyes to droop, and then it is not long until he's following his own instructions.

-

The morning comes too soon. Weak light wades through the heavy curtains, the barest trace of dawn coloring the room just-so-slightly pink. His stomach is in a riot, and his phone is ringing loudly from another room. Work. It's always work.

In moments he is on his feet and sprinting to silence the noise. Few things are as terrifying as children woken up before they are ready.

His communicator is a casualty of last night's quarreling, still laying uncharged on the kitchen counter. Anderson and Beauvou have both called him twice. He assumes it's to do with the mutant rights case which he has neither read nor researched. He can't quite bring himself to feel ashamed. They joined the practice with full knowledge of his priorities and where they stood on that list, which is to say _last._

The communicator rings again, and this time it is their secretary Cynthia. She will have been ordered to call on every half hour until Loki answers. A shameful waste of her time, because he has no intention of working today. He ignores the call with a press of his finger, and nearly drops the phone when a heavy hand lays into the wood of the front door. More of a repeated bludgeoning than a knock.

He answers even though he is dressed only in a nightgown and socks because anyone who has come this deep into his property uninvited won't live to tell the tale.

Or perhaps they will.

"Good morning, your majesty," he greets flatly.

"Brother!" Thor shouts. "Good morning!"

Fenrir growls loudly from the boy's room, and with that the morning is well and truly wrecked. Despite the winter's bite Loki's skin feels unbearably hot and his stomach is making a mutiny worthy of a warrior's ballad. He is not in the mood for Thor's nonsense, not at all.

"It is nearly dawn," he says.

"Oh, I am aware! It took every ounce of my patience not to wake you. I've had the most incredible idea—a solution to our troubles—and I must have your counsel."

Thor attempts to come inside, but Loki steps into the snow instead and closes the door.

With Thor ‘our troubles’ are invariably  _Asgard's_ troubles. Ragnarok left its scars on his adopted people, and Loki is not candid in his growing dislike of them. 

Numerous noble galaxies fell to the Aesir’s armies, and yet now they are eager to weave a tale of injustice and victimhood to anyone who will listen. Oh, how the once shining people have fallen! How unfair it is that they should be refugees on a backwater planet, dressed in imported rags and living in garbage, oh the shame!

Loki has no patience for their self-pity, or their ample revision of history. The only time he suffers it is for Thor, and even then it is out of a dwindling sense of familial obligation rather than true empathy. With the nation in cinders, his mother dead, and Odin still asleep the man truly has nothing left.

This morning, however, Thor is not blubbering at all. He is not even red around the eyes. Instead he is vivid, energized. Loki wishes he had time to shower and pay homage to the toilet before having this conversation, but life never has been kind to him.

"Whatever it is, I want no part in it."

"You will, once you hear it," Thor bellows, leading the way to the bench by the pond where they have often weathered these brotherly consultations. If only he could charge for the service as he does for his legal advice. The dollar isn't worth what it was twenty years ago, after all, and he has bills to pay.

He sits, because even that short walk has winded him, while the oaf stomps around making broad gestures as he speaks.

"As you know our coffers have not been full for many years hence, and it has fallen to me to help our elders adapt to the ways of Midgard."

"Or not to adapt, as the case has been," Loki mutters.

"Aye," Thor nods sadly. "But that is exactly why this is such a marvelous idea, for the elders would not have to change at all, in fact it would be a boon for them to be so steeped in Asgard's past. You see I was speaking to the Lady Valkyrie-"

Loki's uneasiness becomes all-out dread. That horrible witch is an insufferable gossip, and in his infinite foolishness he allowed Tony to buy a _lady's dress_ from her.

"Nothing too scintillating, I hope?"

Thor blinks.

"No? Why? Did something happen?"

"A turn of phrase," Loki says, waving his hand dismissively. "Never mind, tell me your idea."

His brother does not believe him, it is plain on his face, but thankfully he is here with a purpose.

"Well," Thor begins, "The lady told me of a kingdom far to the south, a marvelous place which I had never heard of before. It is a magical kingdom, home to a rich and colorful people. As I understand it, Midgardians travel there in droves to experience their culture, taste their food, and meet their wise and powerful ruler, King Mickey. They say it is the happiest place on Earth."

Loki puts his face in his hands. It's too early for this.

"Valkyrie showed me a paper book-"

"Magazine," Loki corrects.

"-which claims this kingdom earns billions of dollars every year. Every year, Loki! Simply by opening its gates to tourism."

"Odin's beard, Thor, you truly are a fool."

"And we have culture! The humans have studied fables of our might and heroism for nearly a thousand years," Thor carries on with even more intensity. "All this, and you must admit that I am more pleasing on the eyes than a mouse. Why the only thing this Mickey has which we do not is a castle!"

"This is a prank. You have been mislead."

"No, it is a good idea. You have simply been steeped in misery too long to appreciate it," Thor crosses his arms and frowns. Predictable. He never did like to be told no.

Loki scowls, gathering his robe tighter around himself and standing up in a huff.

"Well thank you for visiting, it is always  _so lovely_ to hear your woes-"

"Brother-"

He stomps down the hillside and wonders why he hasn't blocked Thor from entering his wards. It's not as if he ever has anything useful to say. More than half of the time he visits only to complain about New Asgard's latest squabble, and when it isn't that he comes seeking advice that he then refuses to heed. It's a waste of time.

Thor's heavy boots sink deep into the snow as he attempts to follow, his bulk and stature ill-suited to Loki's untamed domain.

"I spoke out of turn," he says. "Come back, I don't mean to bicker."

"If you are so certain then I don't see why you need my counsel. By all means, whore out your heritage for the Midgardians' amusement."

"I have always valued your insight," Thor calls as Loki wrenches the door open. "Would it not be a blessing to put funds in the nation? You know our struggles."

" _Your_ struggles."

Thor stops, his breath clouding out of his mouth from the cold. He doesn't understand. He never understands.

"I had hoped we could embark on this endeavor together."

Loki tries to have pity, but his head is pounding and his stomach is churning and he can hear his offspring warring already after only five minutes of being awake.

"In case it has escaped your attention, I have my own troubles to contend with," he snaps.

Fury seems to gush from absolutely nowhere, a potent frustration that he's kept sharply under wraps. Sparks crackle out of his fingers as he lowers his voice and rants in a bitter hiss.

"I have business partners who call me at all hours of the day. I have children who need care and a partner who _cries_ over a _cup of coffee_ because he cannot fathom how good it tastes. I am trapped in this _repulsive_ form for an in-determinant amount of time, and on top of all that I have a bloody parasite sucking the life out of me. You tell me, Thor, do I have time to worry about your problems? Do I?"

Though he was aiming for anger, Loki misses rather significantly. His brother's face falls into something much worse—pity.

"You would if you allowed others to help. I only hear of such things when you are already struggling, and then you punish me for not knowing what you did not confide in me. We're family, we're meant to _share_ our burdens."

"Perhaps a better brother would not need to be told," Loki stiffens.

Thor sighs, pulling his cloak closer around his shoulders.

"Do you know what I think, brother? I think you don't want to be happy."

"Rubbish-"

"Because," Thor speaks over him, his face infuriating in it's placidity, "you're afraid of being the slightest bit vulnerable to anyone. And if you weren't miserable, then you could not use your suffering to push away those who would love you."

Loki doesn't know what the big oaf is on about.

He would love to be happy. He would love nothing more than to leave this misery behind, but the rest of the world simply won't let him. It's not his fault that he's overworked, over-scheduled, and underappreciated—it's the damned human's fault.

If only they could get their sloppy, illogical governments to function properly then Loki wouldn't have to go to court and explain to them that they have incarcerated thousands of innocent men, or go to world leadership conferences and explain that the Asgardians are refugees regardless of where they originated.

He wouldn't have to barge into the offices of department store owners and demand that they stock clothes appropriate for non-gendered persons or correct every single journalist who describes him as a 'humanitarian' when it is plain as day that the defendant in his case against the world is _himself_ , not the blasted human animals that can't even share an elevator without saying something racist.

Rage fueled and fuming, Loki seizes the door by the handle and snaps it open.

"I think it's a dreadful idea, and I hope you all burn," he shouts, slamming the door.

Even through the thick stone wall, he hears Thor's reply, although he would much rather he didn't.

"I love you too," he shouts, "See you next week."

Loki wants to stick his head in the fireplace.

"Uncle Thor?" Hela asks, hir fist rubbing at one eye as ze walks in from the hallway.

"Journalists," Loki grumbles. He kicking off his sloppy socks.

"Mmhmm," his oldest nods. "Sure."

He stalks toward his room— _his and Tony's room—_ and finds his lover dangling from the rafters. Because there is always room for a day to become even more confounding.

Tony glances down, his arms bending as he pulls himself upwards and grunts. Loki's phone rings again and he spikes it into the laundry basket so hard that the top layer of clothes fly out from the recoil.

"What was all that yelling about?"

"What on Earth are you doing?" Loki growls.

"Pull ups," Tony grunts. A drop of sweat falls down the muscles of his back as he demonstrates. "I always worked out first thing before role call, force of habit I guess. I felt weird laying in bed, so I figured I'd just... you know."

He does another repetition and Loki's eyes wander a bit far for polite company. His fiance is naked apart from a pair of prison-issue exercise shorts that barely cling to his hips and the gold necklace Loki gave him for their tenth anniversary. After one more bend of his arms he drops down and wipes the sweat from his forehead.

A piece of his ear is missing from an altercation with the Russian mob and a jagged, repulsive tattoo defaces his right shoulder from the year he'd been forced to bunk with a white supremacist and only gang affiliation had kept him from being stabbed in his sleep. Loki's name is branded around his wrist in a scarred ring and a crevice is carved deep into his sternum where the arc reactor used to sit.

He looks like a thug, to put it bluntly, and although none of this is new information it still unsettles Loki to see him—the dissonance between the Anthony he remembers and the man he’s been forced to become. A man who respects rules and follows routines.

The only emotion more stubborn than Anthony's need for atonement is his own guilt over allowing him to do it. He wishes they could erase the last twenty years, but that would only deny Tony his peace of mind. To remove him from his heroics would be like sifting salt from the sea. One might make clean water, but all life in them would die. Still... he mourns.

The trials of the morning catch up to him as he stares at Tony's chest and tries to think of something to say.

Now is a good time to discuss his misgivings. They are at loose ends; the last era of their lives decidedly at a close and the next one only just beginning. He knows there will not be a better time than now, but he feels wretched and Tony's body is loose and relaxed. He looks happy, flush from exertion with his hair sticking up at whimsical angles, and Loki is tired of ruining his good moods.

But of course Tony doesn't realize he's thinking such things. He thinks Loki is admiring his physique.

"Ready for a field trip?" his fiance asks, blatantly posturing, sucking in his non-existent gut.

Loki buries his doubts in the back of his mind and pretends to be fondly exasperated.

"Get dressed, heathen."

"What, don't like the show?" Tony teases, flexing. "I thought you liked my prison bod."

"I like it better with the door closed," Loki rolls his eyes. "It is a good thing we don't live in the city. The women would kidnap you in an instant and have their wicked ways."

He attempts a retreat into the adjoining bathroom, but an arm blocks his path.

"What did Point Break want?"

"Nothing."

Loki ducks under Tony's arm only to be captured from behind in an embrace. Tony rocks them side to side like this is all a frivolous game. Cat and mouse, check and mate. It isn't though, it is the most serious matter Loki can think of.

"Tell me what’s wrong," Tony prods.

"Let go-"

"Tell me and I'll let go."

What is wrong is _everything,_ but this is not the answer Tony wants.

Whether he knows it or not, his fiance wants him to be a certain type of unhappy. He wants him tired or hungry or stressed or ill because these problems are tangible. These are problems Tony can solve like the engineer he is.

But Loki's problems are not simple. They do not have tangible solutions. His problems are anger, self-hatred, a distrust of the world at large, and the solution his mind suggests is far worse than any of these.

So when Tony asks him what is wrong he never knows what to say. Either he dons a mask of his own face and insists that everything is fine or he answers honestly and plunges them into another circular conversation about his incurable cognitive distortions.

The long silence sobers Tony's mood. He steps so they are face to face, and Loki wants to run.

"You're worrying me, Slugger," he frowns, leaning in so he can see him through the hair in his face. Loki steps away.

"I told you, it's nothing," he swallows. "Nothing we have not already discussed."

Callused hands encircle his wrists and _pity, worry, love_ rushes through him. He flinches.

Tony lets go, and somehow that makes him feel worse.

"Maybe we should postpone the Jotunheim thing-"

"No! No, I want to go."

"You look worse than you did before the trip."

"I'm just tired. Jor woke me up. It's nothing."

Steadying himself, he takes Tony's hands and bears the brunt of his anxiety if only to prove that he can. To prove that he is fine and his partner is being dramatic.

Tony looks ready to start a proper argument when Fenrir struts through the bedroom door screaming.  _Why must they always be screaming?_

"Dad! Jori's messing with the toaster again!"

Belatedly, Loki smells burning.

Tony groans. "Kid, has no one ever told you about knocking?"

"Look what he did to my waffle!" Fenrir whines. "It was the last one!"

"I'll go," Loki says lowly, eager for the escape, but Tony is already pulling away.

"Now whose fault is that?" Tony takes the plate from Fenrir and inspects the charred food. "If you were there and you didn't stop him, then you're at fault too, bud."

Fenrir grumbles all the way to the kitchen, and Tony follows. Loki should not feel so relieved.

Alone at last, he attempts to center himself with the rituals of the morning. Hair brushing and clothing selection, an inspection of his face to determine whether he should shave today or tomorrow. The smell of his toothpaste makes him gag, which in turn makes his newest ritual—vomiting his entire stomach contents every four to six hours—much faster than usual.

As he is making his second attempt at dental hygiene Jormungand comes to jump on his bed and chatter, as is their routine. He is supposed to wait _quietly_ until Loki is ready to dress him, but after the bouts of melancholy he is loath to discourage any manner of talking.

Today, it seems he wants to tell Loki about boats. Does he know that humans invented boats a very long time ago? Does he know that boats can cross the ocean? Only the big ones, of course. The little ones only go in rivers or lakes, but those don't have swimming pools or dining rooms.

Evidently the cruise left an impression.

Loki listens with half an ear as he adjusts the fur at the top of his Jotun war harness. It's a mockery on him, but it will help them immensely to blend in. The Iron Wood is not a place open to outsiders.

For a handful of minutes he nods along, fussing with the uncomfortably revealing garments and questioning his own decision to leave the dark circles under his eyes uncovered by makeup. Then Jor stops jumping, and he pivots on pure parental instinct.

The boy has a shoestring tangled in his hands and wound twice around his forehead.

 _The_ shoestring.

"Jor-”

“Look, I’m a mummy!”

Sense memories of Tony’s lips on his neck make his face burn, and he runs to unwind his son.

“You will be when you choke to death, good graces child, you’ll be the death of me," he rants, frantically untangling.

Jormungand pouts. "But daddy-"

"Enough, let's get you dressed," Loki snaps, tossing the shoelace under the bed in absolute mortification.

Ducking into the boys room he extracts his youngest's Jotun clothing from the bottom of the drawer and Jormundand's revolt intensifies. The boy hates clothes, full stop, but he especially dislikes the tribal leathers. Without magic to aid him he loses control of the situation rather quickly. Jor is both nimble and capable of phasing through walls. In no time at all he is dashing from the room, his sleep clothes a pile on the floor and his Jotun leggings tangled in Loki's horns.

Darting into the hallway after him, he has to squeeze past Hela who is hammering the bathroom door with hir fist. Further down he catches a glimpse of a naked blue buttocks disappearing in a cloud of black smoke, and what was left of his optimism wilts. Tony is coughing, and waving his hands through the air.

"Tony, good gods," he yells.

The kitchen is in shambles. Raw pancake batter has been splattered on everything within a meter of the stove, which is itself engulfed in flames as tall as a saucepan.

"Hot damn, Lokes, these appliances are heavy duty!" His fiance laughs with ash smeared on his nose, "Is there a way to turn this down?"

In his rush to douse the fire, Tony has broken the extendable faucet on the sink and water is shooting across the room, soaking Loki's favorite chair. Burnt food covers the table, now soggy from the water, and Jormungand is bent over stealing chocolate chips from a jar that must have fallen and shattered at some point.

"Either shit or get off the pot, I need the shower!" Hela screams behind him, to which Fenrir returns a long stream of muffled curse words and Loki can only think of the night he got the news that Tony's release had been approved.

He had not slept in his bed in two weeks. He was tired, sore, his throat raw from retching. Thor had thoroughly destroyed the house in the time he'd been babysitting, along with any semblance of discipline Loki had managed to instill in his brood. He was jet-lagged, woozy, and desperately lonely, but through sheer force of will he had gotten the children to sleep. He had mended the broken window and righted all the furniture, put away the leftover food. As the clock ticked on past midnight he had eaten a dinner of cold yogurt and scrubbed the house from floor to ceiling.

Until dawn he refused to stop until the house was worthy of Tony's presence, emptying every cupboard and sterilizing every crevice of every cobble. He'd worked until he physically couldn't do any more, and then he had laid on the still-damp floor and cried because soon it would all be over. Soon Mister Stark would return and set his life in order.

He'd been so hopeful that night. Proud of himself for surviving, if only by the skin of his teeth. Despite his nerves and his changing body he'd laid on the floor and sobbed happy tears in anticipation of good things to come.

And now, in the same spot, surrounded by mess and chaos and disaster that brittle, restorative hope dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopping on the H/C train next chapter, choo choo


End file.
